Weighted with everything we just lived through.
What we saw. What was said.
And everything she didn’t say—but I still heard.
I don’t have the full picture of what Willow went through.
Not yet.
But I’ve got enough of it to make my blood boil.
To make my hands clench on the steering wheel so hard I left finger dents.
Her mother.
That fucking ex piece of shit.
The way she stood there, trembling but strong, holding her ground while the two people who should’ve protected her instead tried to sell her off like she was nothing?
It gutted me.
And yeah, I hit the bastard.
I don’t regret that.
I’ll never regret that.
I’d do it again a thousand times if it meant she’d feel safer for even one breath.
Now we’re home.
Back in our bubble.
The house is warm. Quiet. Familiar.
But everything feels different.
I watch her move, still in those soft black pants and that faded shirt she pulled on when we left Jersey. Her face is blank, like she hasn’t decided how to feel yet.
Like she’s too full to process it all.
And me?
My chest feels too tight.
My lungs don’t want to work right.
I want to wrap her up in my arms and never let the world get close to her again.
I want to pull her into bed and hold her until that hollow look in her eyes disappears.
I want to tell her she never has to see those people again—not as long as I’m breathing.
But mostly?
I want to earn her.
Build her back up.
